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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501411">Lost and Found</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/AMadness2Method'>AMadness2Method (CynSyn)</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevynlira/pseuds/Sevynlira'>Sevynlira</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies'>Tarek_giverofcookies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookstores, First Kiss, Kidnapping, LGBTQ Themes, Libraries, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Small Towns, Threats of Violence, mention of a past attempted suicide by a minor character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:28:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,625</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/AMadness2Method, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevynlira/pseuds/Sevynlira, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Small towns have a way of taking care of their own. Haven is one of those small towns. The kind with only one diner and only one red light. It does have something that not every small town has. A bookshop. A very special bookshop owned by someone dear to each and every resident of Haven. It’s just too bad that he is single and his dating prospects are slim to none. Well, until the stranger rolled into town. A man who seems to have lost everything. It’s a good thing the residents of Haven have a plan for lost things. Everyone in town knows that anything you are missing can be found in the Lost and Found.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>153</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Mini Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Stranger in Town (leather pants and rumors abound)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This collaborative effort wouldn't have been possible without the amazing folks who hosted this Mini-bang event. We owe them so much for organizing and introducing us to each other. Thank you!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>There was a stranger in town. A most unusual thing to happen. Unusual because Haven was one of those towns. The kind that has one red light. The kind that only exists because the highway carrying truckers and vacationers somewhere else is near enough to keep a gas station alive. This stranger is different though. He isn't a long haul trucker. He isn't related to anyone in town. And apparently, he wears leather trousers.</p>
  <p>"If I were twenty years younger, I would bang him like a screen door." Madame Tracy opines while Zira tries not to choke on his tea the next booth over. He shudders at the mental image of Madame Tracy banging anyone. She is on the farthest side of middle age and saucy in the way that some vibrant ladies are allowed to be in small towns. It's friday evening and Zira is at the diner, as he is just about every friday evening. Thankfully, Anathema Device, the owner of the diner (and current waitress), manages to interrupt the salacious conversation before Aziraphale has permanent damage to his psyche. In fact, he is able to put the matter completely out of his mind. Until Ms. Device is taking payment at the register and mentions the lost and found.</p>
  <p>“Here we are. Shadwell left his debit card and the new guy left his gloves.” she says while dragging the shoebox from behind the counter. She slides the box over to Aziraphale who carefully tucks it into his messenger bag.</p>
  <p>For a moment he considers the exciting prospect of meeting a stranger that wears leather trousers. Well, it’s something to look forward to. What sort of gloves would a leather clad man leave lying in a diner? His curiosity is piqued. As he walks the two blocks from the diner to the library, he ponders the possibilities. Leather gloves for sure. Probably. Those biker gloves. The ones with the holes in the knuckles. The ones with cut off fingers. He nods to himself in agreement as he unlocks the door and makes his way to the desk with only the light of the streetlamp guiding him.</p>
  <p>Aziraphale is so familiar with the layout that it is no trouble for him to find the empty space to slide the shoebox. He pauses. Ok. He has to see. Flipping the lid aside, he scrapes his fingers down into the box until they encounter the fabric. Oh! For a second his hand registered the texture as silk. Soft. As he curls his fingers around them, the give is wrong. He was right. They are leather and butter soft. They feel like touching the underside of a rose petal. Delicate. The leather captures the warmth of his hand after only touching them for a moment. Not cold weather gloves though. Too thin for that and fingerless. The hands that go in them must be narrow. Expensive. Very chic. Is the stranger a biker? The gloves look black in the dark room. Interesting. It is strangely voyeuristic to be holding them here in his empty shop. He feels suddenly like a creep. Shuddering a little bit, he dumps the gloves back into the box and slides it into place. He laughs softly in mockery at himself as he makes his way up the back stairs into his loft apartment. It’s not like he had been handling anything intimate. Goodness. He obviously needs to get out more. His barren social life is making all sorts of odd ideas occur to him. Zira doesn’t follow his own chastisement well though, because as he settles into his warm bed, there is one last happy thought of meeting the stranger tomorrow perhaps! Something to look forward to, indeed.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Excuse me, You Dropped This (don't look too hard, I might have tucked my heart inside)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Absolutely no speculation or gossip could have possibly prepared him for the man who swings into the bookshop the next afternoon. Six feet of lanky swaggering shadow glides through the front entrance and drives Aziraphale’s breath right up into his throat. Today the trousers are not leather. But tight. And really he should stop looking at them or it might give the wrong impression entirely. But there isn’t anywhere he can look that isn’t interesting. Red hair. A thick shock of it spiking and falling just above the mirrored lenses of sunglasses. Black on black on black and miles of limbs. Suddenly all that can come to mind are the dry suggestive tones of Madame Tracy saying “I would bang him like a screen door”. He certainly agrees with the sentiment but that is hardly a way to greet anyone. This won’t do at all. He is going to have to say something. He can’t just gawp at the man all afternoon.</p>
<p>“Hello.” he manages to drag from some wellspring of polite habit. It even sounds mostly normal. The man pulls an expressive face even with the sunglasses. An expression that says something like surprise and fishing for something to say.</p>
<p>“Right.” the stranger begins, as if they had been holding some silent conversation. “The lady at the diner told me I could find my gloves here.”</p>
<p>“Ah yes!” Aziraphale exclaims and finds his own voice rising to sound like the most foppish English queer that ever lived. He suffers so much mental frustration at how incredibly proper his voice goes every time he is nervous. It really will be the end of any possible chance of being interesting in the slightest. It is one thing to be the only gay guy in town. It's another to have every single human being that meets you instantly assuming that. Ninety five percent of his “coming out” stories end with, “Tell me something I didn’t already know Zira.” Sure enough, he can spot the little quirk in the corner of the stranger’s mouth. There it is. He has been sorted and filed and only amusement seems to be the result. Good. No need for drama today.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The stranger leans improbably over the top of the counter as if he will lounge on it. It’s like he is making himself at home in the shop even though he has only been in it for ten minutes. Aziraphale is amused by folks who arrange themselves like this. Poets do it, writers, people with bohemian lives. Rockstars. They make every hallway and alley a living room somehow. It exudes confidence. They are blue haired girls who sit cross legged in airport lounges. They are the rolling stones sleeping backstage stacked like cordwood. College students spilling over chairs in study halls.</p>
<p>Aziraphale pulls the box labeled -Diner- from the shelf. “Here we are.” He bustles as if he has just retrieved a priceless artifact from the archives of the british museum. Peeling the lid from the box he offers the contents to the man who is busy touching every item on the desk with those slender, and good lord, freckled hands. He doesn’t seem in any particular rush to stop his inventory of the desk and so he nods toward the box in acknowledgement. “I was told this is the library. The sign says A.Z. Fell and Co.” He mentions as he turns a little ceramic cat over in his palm.</p>
<p>“Ah yes. It is a rather interesting story. The town is leasing half of my building for the public library. The other half is my shop.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t know they could do that. Libraries.” The black clad man says without breaking his thorough examination of the basket of pride pins and buttons tucked beside the cash register.</p>
<p>“I didn’t either until it happened, really.” Zira situates himself comfortably behind the counter in his favorite spot to calm his anxious thoughts. “We- I mean... I am so fortunate that our town has a council that cares about literacy around here. I think a lot of small towns really don’t have what we have.” The librarian focuses on the cart of book returns with all the intensity of a religious ceremony for the sake of not gawking some more. Really, why hasn’t he gathered his gloves and gone already? Oh. The gloves are a deep crimson. The flash of red next to all that black. Just like his hair. Just looking at the man, there isn’t much they could possibly talk about. Surely, there isn’t any reason for him to want to spend his Saturday afternoon lounging around a library. He certainly doesn’t look like he frequents bookshops.</p>
<p>The stranger flicks his hands toward the book Zira is holding. “That one is a cracker. Butler is a genius.”</p>
<p>Zira’s eyes light with enthusiasm. “Oh quite! Ms. Butler is a powerhouse. I can’t think that one is really knowledgeable about women’s liberation without mentioning Butler. Her science fiction not only is brilliant but it became more than that. It is a path into spaces that white men had denied women of color.” His energy for the subject has animated his hands and the adhament way he has stated his opinion has him leaning toward the space where the stranger sprawls.</p>
<p>“I have a huge and savage conscience that won’t let me get away with things.” the redhead quotes.</p>
<p>“Oh!” Zira can only blush and flutter. He is so surprised at the apparent interest this man has on the topic. Might he also be an advocate for conscience and activist notions? It is fascinating and suddenly he is quite sure he could talk for hours with this man that he had considered completely out of his element just moments before.</p>
<p>The man thrusts forward his hand smoothly. “I’m Anthony. Crowley. Well. Just Crowley. I prefer.” He ends his jagged explanation with an explanatory noise while gesturing his hand as if to remind Zira to shake it.</p>
<p>The librarian takes Crowley’s hand. For a second he is reminded of the gloves. The rose petal soft leather sliding over those long fingers. The hand he is holding right now. It feels surreal all of a sudden. His polite habit springs to rescue him again and he doesn’t even stutter while offering his own name. “I’m Aziraphale. A. Z. Fell. See? My mother thought the shop name was clever.”</p>
<p>“Aziraphale?” Crowley tries the name with raised brows while retrieving his hand.</p>
<p>“Yes. I know. It’s an obscure angel name. I think my mother was reading paranormal themed romance novels at the time. Her taste in literature was always completely chaotic. There was no guessing what sort of book she might have on hand. So I’m named after an angel romance novel.”</p>
<p>There is a feral smirk rising in the corner of Crowley’s mouth. His white teeth flash behind the amused expression. For a moment Zira can only think “He is wearing sunglasses and still manages to wear all of his expressions in such dramatic fashion. The glasses aren’t even hiding his face at all somehow. If anything they are adding to the effect.”</p>
<p>“Zira if you like. That is what everyone calls me.” Aziraphale offers.</p>
<p>“No. Don’t think I will.” Crowley drawls while still wearing that amused smirk and shaking his head.</p>
<p>“What? Why?” Zira is confused. Did he get lost somewhere in the conversation while noticing how sharp and white those teeth were?</p>
<p>“Imma call you Angel.” Crowley emphasizes his decision by tapping the edge of the pin he is holding against the countertop. “It’s short for Paranormal Romance Novel Angel” He has raised his hands to frame the words as if sketching out a hanging banner and drags out every word as if he is titling an event or announcement. “I mean. I could call you ALL of that if you like.” Crowley drawls with a devilish turn of his attention back to the bookseller.</p>
<p>Aziraphale’s face lights up like a beacon. His fair skin has always shown a blush with humiliating alacrity. The saving grace of his polite habits have withered beneath the intensity of those black shining lenses pointed at him.</p>
<p>Crowley tosses the pin back into the basket and reaches for his gloves in the shoebox. “Thanks for hanging onto these.... Angel.” The intentional pause before he says the nickname and that amused smirk makes it fairly obvious that he is completely aware of what the flirting is doing to the flustered librarian.</p>
<p>Before Zira can even catch his breath, that long legged swagger has carried Crowley out the front door and into the afternoon light. Sunset does wonders to the bright crown of his hair and Aziraphale is not too inclined to stop staring after the man until he disappears in the direction of the Bed and Breakfast.</p>
<p>Wow. Just. Wow.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Terrible Loss (nothing has gone as planned)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All my formatting got lost when I switched from HTML to Rich text. I reformatted and reposted this chapter with the correction. Thanks for your patience with my noobishness!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>FIVE YEARS AGO</strong>
</p><p>Like most people, Zira hadn’t set out in life to stay in the small town of his birth. Most young people jet right out of there as soon as they get old enough to realise the dismal state of things. Not a lot of jobs. Not a lot of opportunities for fun or entertainment. Even Zira with his content quiet demeanor had assumed that life would send him elsewhere. He was quite aware of his sexuality and what it means to live in a small town. The chances for meeting and falling in love with someone who could be a lifetime partner just wasn’t terribly high. He did have those dreams, once. Then life happened. As it does. Zira was raised by a single mom. A single mom that ran a quaint little bookstore in a quaint little town. Her love for books and literature was the greatest inheritance he got from her. Working at the bookstore seemed like the logical thing to do. Then she got sick. Cancer managed to shred all of his plans overnight. Suddenly he was shuttling his mom to doctor’s appointments and therapy. His degree in library sciences from community college sat dusty and unused as they do in a lot of people’s basements. When she left the world, his mother left a pile of debt and a tiny little bookshop to her grieving son. It wasn’t a particularly unique story, just one of thousands. Waking up and opening the store and dealing with one day at a time. Zira wasn’t sad about it. He was pragmatic. He was aware of the big picture. He wasn’t anything special and the universe wasn’t picking on him.</p><p>Well, until his landlord descends upon the shop. Okay, maybe the universe did have it out for him. Gabriel is the square jawed, overly cologned, shark smiling bane of his existence. Every small town has one of them. Sometimes they are politicians, judges, policemen. The ones that are quite sure they are running a kingdom or a police state. Some tiny stupid little realm where every subject lines right up and kisses their ass. Zira barely manages to hold back the groan of misery. What is it this time?</p><p>“Zira, I’m sure you got my email. I got a delivery notice that says you did. I just can’t accept direct deposit any longer. Do you have my money order ready?” Gabriel smiles as if he isn’t smashing every ounce of peace that Zira had made with the morning.</p><p>“I’m sorry Gabriel. I don’t have it today, I haven’t had a chance to go get one yet. I have until the 5th right?” Zira focuses on the counter and feels his ears burn with shame.</p><p>“Well, technically. Yes.” Gabriel agrees with obvious disdain. “It is late on the fifth and you will have the late fee. It is actually due today. I had hoped you had it ready for me.”</p><p>Zira bites back the urge to argue. How could he have it ready if the email saying he couldn’t direct deposit his rent wasn’t sent until last night? He had no idea until this morning lying in bed that his landlord was changing the rules and wanted money orders only from now on. Rent had been more than a struggle, it had been a nightmare and having overdrafts and stop payments means Gabriel will only take money orders. It’s not unreasonable. But it’s also completely inconvenient. Getting a money order means going out of town. He will have to arrange his life to jump through these new hoops.<br/>
“I will have to go get one, you will have it before the fifth.” Zira says with exhaustion weighing his words.</p><p>“I can take you to go get the money order if you need a ride.” Gabriel offers. Casually. As if this hadn’t been part of his plan the entire time.</p><p>Zira knows better. The landowner had leveraged his way into the shop as often as possible for years now. Always something predatory and hard in his eyes. Always looking for the opportunity to insinuate and leverage any way to harass or intimidate the bookshop owner. Always polite. Always clean cut and presumably straight. But beneath the glittering facade there was always the threat. The way he angles his body to trap Zira against shelves. The proprietary way he suggests that Zira is available and vulnerable. The way he insinuates that he finds the soft gay boy disgusting but desires him anyway. For years, Zira had a buffer against this stalking grey suited menace. He had his mother, his college classes. Now, there is no such shelter. His landlord can enter the property as he wishes. He can bully and leer and keep Zira helpless to his whims. If crippling debt and grief weren’t enough to make Zira feel like his world was collapsing, Gabriel circling like a wolf at the door was.</p><p>What was he going to do?</p><p>
  <strong>FOUR YEARS AGO</strong>
</p><p>A year of staving off the wolf. An entire stress ridden, grief filled year. Zira has finally broken. Completely. In the way that soft and beautiful people do. He closes the door. Closes it and finds his bed and resolves not to rise again. It's over. He can’t do this anymore. There is no one there to comfort him. No one to---wait. Is that knocking? More than that. Somebody is banging the door like their life depends on it. It's probably Gabriel. Come to gloat. He has nothing. He might as well get it over with. He feels bile rising in his throat.</p><p>Zira is so prepared to face Gabriel that he can only stare in stunned disbelief at the tiny woman at the door. Anathema Device is smiling at him and he has no idea what is going on.</p><p>He isn’t any less dumbfounded when she announces that the town is going to save the shop! They have decided to establish a public library and want to rent half the space in his shop to do it. The town council has put together a plan and sharing the space with the bookshop means that his landlord Gabriel will get lots of glorious praise from the town and it means that any dispute on the property will have to go through the town council. Basically, Gabriel can go suck it. The public library will be paid for by the town and his little bookshop is going to survive. Zira is completely astounded.</p><p>“But, I haven’t ever heard of a library sharing space with another business before?!” he worries.</p><p>“Sure they do. In a lot of places! You will just have to clear out half the bottom floor to house public library books. A couple of computers with the internet. A copy machine. We will need to install a ramp for the entrance” Anathema insists while gesturing around the room. “We have needed a library for a while now. It’s perfect. And we won’t lose the bookshop. This town has lost so many small businesses. And you have a degree in library sciences! I remember your mom talking about it. It’s perfect. You are a librarian. This can work!”</p><p>That was the day Zira first knew he wasn’t alone at all. There was an entire little network of bright warm hearts that ran this little town. They were just a handful of people but a more stubborn and beautiful group of people couldn’t be imagined. All this time they had watched his life falling apart. And they had set plans in motion. To catch him. To cradle his happiness in their arms and save him. They had been there all along. Ready to reach out. Here they were. His town. His people.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. I Would lose my Head (If it weren't attached to me)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Present Day</strong>
</p>
<p>Anathema enters the bookstore with all her usual reticence and patience during her monday midmorning break. In other words, she blows in like some sort of manic hurricane set to get all the details and gossip STAT. “So? TELL ME. How did it go? What do you think? My gaydar is impeccable. I consulted the cards. It is fate. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” This last bit she emphasizes with a paperback jabbing into Zira’s back. He is unpacking inventory in the library section and trying not to act like he has any idea at all what she is asking.</p>
<p>“How did what go?” He manages in surprisingly convincing flat tones.</p>
<p>“YOU MET HIM!” She crows</p>
<p>Aziraphale decides that he can’t really stretch his pretense to actually include meeting Crowley. It would be obvious he is dodging the conversation. “Yes. I met him.” Zira admits.</p>
<p>“And?” she insists while poking him again with the book.</p>
<p>Zira turns and takes the book from her hands. “And nothing.”</p>
<p>Anathema whines in frustration and follows him to the next shelf to hand him books. “No. Really. Tell me!”</p>
<p>“There is nothing to tell. He came and picked up his gloves and left. The end.” Zira sighs and pushes a book into place.</p>
<p>“So what did he say?” Anathema is on the scent. She has picked up on some hint that there might be something he would have to tell. Fodder for the gossip mills on the town’s latest subject of interest.<br/>Suddenly the only thing he can think of is the tilt of Crowley’s head and the flirting tone when he had called him “angel”. Oh good lord. He certainly won’t be telling Anathema about that! His face feels warm again just thinking about it.</p>
<p>“Oh. You are blushing Zira. Out with it! I knew it!” Anathema’s face is glowing with excitement.</p>
<p>Aziraphale scrambles to think of anything else he can mention that doesn’t involve that sharp flirting smirk. “Well. He likes Octavia Butler. Said a quote by her.”</p>
<p>Anathema stops them both in the middle of the aisle. “He quoted a writer to our town librarian? Oh my! That is serious stuff. Be still my heart!” Her grin is infectious and she presses her hand over her heart paired with an exaggerated swoon.</p>
<p>“Oh stop that!” Zira flaps his hands toward her in reprimand. “It is completely normal to discuss books and literature in a library. For heaven’s sake!”</p>
<p>“All right then. Fine.” She pouts. “I just thought you should meet is all.”</p>
<p>Something occurs to him. “Wait. Anathema Device. What did you do?” His face is flaming even brighter, he can feel it. “Please tell me you didn’t nick those gloves and put them into the lost and found!”</p>
<p>The guilty rise of her brows completely gives the game away. “Oh no! Anathema. You are terrible at stealing things! He knew you did that!” He groans in misery while filing a few more books. “What in the world must he think? Stealing his things and sending him on purpose to meet me.” He rests his face on the spines of the books for just a second, wishing he could sink into them. “I am going to have to apologise.” He groans again. “I’m sure he thinks everyone here is daft. What were you thinking?” Zira shakes his head in disbelief and sinks into the overstuffed chair in the reading nook. “You are completely incorrigible, Anathema. How am I even going to look that man in the face?”</p>
<p>Anathema only grins unrepentantly and flops down on the chair arm to wrap her arms around his neck. “You love me.” She insists.</p>
<p>“You are a menace” He insists.</p>
<p>“He is sexy though.” She muses.</p>
<p>He shoves her off the arm of the chair. “Go on! Don’t you have people to feed?” He shoos her with a flap of his hands. She flounces to the door with exaggerated gusto, but when she turns her face is smiling wide. Zira rolls his eyes at her antics and can’t help but laugh a little himself. This poor visitor, Crowley his brain helpfully reminds him, has no idea the sort of shenanigans this little town is capable of.<br/>Zira had just managed to finally settle himself and is closing the shop for the day when Dee manages to terrify him half out of his skin by slinking out of the shadows right at the corner of his eye. Dee is so accustomed to startled yelps that they don’t even blink as he almost swallows his tongue and tries to not have a heart attack. “Oh heavens. Dee. I didn’t see you there.” He explains needlessly.</p>
<p>The explanation isn’t needed because Dee at that moment is wearing a black hooded shawl that drapes from head to ankles in one long shadowed form. If he didn’t know them so well, he would assume they had some sinister motive behind slinking everywhere dressed like a shadow. But it is just Dee. Prejudice comes in all sorts and shapes and the town had almost not managed to catch this one before they fell right into the worst of hands. If you asked some folks, they would probably say this kiddo has a problem. Probably with some drugs. Probably with some satanism. The problem was a lot harder than all that. Things like drugs and satanism are hardly ever the real problem. Other people usually are. Other people and a dash of depression is all it takes to get a teenager up on some roof asking for reasons why not to jump.</p>
<p>Thankfully, on that day. Zira had an answer. It wasn’t even a really good one. I mean, we can’t usually think of exactly the right reason to help a person in that way. But it didn’t have to be perfect. That day. That moment. It was because somebody cared enough to try to think of a few.</p>
<p>So Dee had stuck around. Working at the gas station on the night shifts. Always dressed for their funeral. Always reaching out for others to maybe pass on the word. Pass on the idea. “Hey, there is some pretty good music out there. Maybe you like that beebop stuff. And have you ever tried crepes? Maybe some good food at the diner might change how today looks a little bit.” It is a cheeky idea really, that somehow all of us little humans can keep going on just the idea that it all would be so sad if it ended. So their apocalypse had not come that day. Or any of the days after because they remembered the message and even more importantly, the bright heart that had given them that gift.</p>
<p>Zira, as usual, has picked up his usual inane chatter about the nuances of his day. This is how it is between them. Dee lingers like a quiet shadow cast by the pale light of his regard. He bangs on about absolutely everything except that topic. Crowley is smirking in his head at how silly it is to be dancing around it. Maddening!</p>
<p>He manages just fine while bustling to make tea for them both and to settle his shadow into the comfy corner of his loft. Right until Dee finds some small wedge of silence in which to interrupt by thrusting a silver grey bit of fabric out from the folds of their cloak. It's a scarf. It's. Scarf-ish. Scarf adjacent. More a decoration. A swatch of fabric. A little bit of glitter that hangs right down the flat planes of that thin chest and frames the divot where collar bones meet. And yes, he is mentally racing through all of this is some futile effort to keep his face neutral while raising his brows at the bit of cloth. He might be blushing.</p>
<p>“The guy in black left this.” They say. With zero embellishment. He really could use some embellishment right now. Some chatter to fill this awkward silence. He can’t just stare at it all day. But they aren’t really the embellishing type.</p>
<p>“Ah. Lost and found then?” He asks in a strangled voice while carefully taking the slinky fabric. Does Crowley own anything that isn’t soft and fine and beautiful? Just like the gloves, this expensive thing feels like holding something secret.</p>
<p>He is relieved for the chance to get his face under control by making his way downstairs. He tucks the scarf into the lost and found box with a sense of relief. If he isn’t looking at it, then maybe he can move on with his night.</p>
<p>Of course, once he is plating a charcuterie board for the two of them to share, he finds himself doing the exact opposite. Something about the patient way that Dee fiddles with their phone and then settles into the motions of helping him slice cheese and retrieve pickles from the brine. It is restful. It invites conversation. One of the reasons he likes Dee. They aren’t likely to share his confidences and so what if he talks a little bit about meeting Crowley?</p>
<p>It’s in the middle of a rapt description of his hands that Zira noticed the most startling thing. It stops his chatter in its tracks. Dee is smiling. It is a transformation. Their ice blue eyes are beaming through the thick veil of their lined and lashed and pierced face. They are so stunning and bright that Zira sets his tea down and presses his fingertips against his flaming face. “Oh.” He says.</p>
<p>“You like him.” Dee says with their own charcoal dipped smile.</p>
<p>They don’t embarrass him further by embellishing. Truly. Dee is a gift to the world.</p>
<p>It is only later that night while settling in for sleep that he thinks. “How in hell did Dee get the scarf? Who leaves a scarf at a gas station? Why would he even take it off? He had been wearing it yesterday. So, some time today, Crowley had removed his scarf and somehow Dee got it?” None of it is really making any sense.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Imagine Bumping into You Here! (of all places)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zira had almost convinced himself that the first meeting with Crowley had been a bit of fantasy and overblown imaginative fancy. He is prone to daydreaming and storytelling and the story he had told to himself about Crowley was all about those long freckled fingers and the bright shock of hair. Turns out it wasn’t a bit of fiction, the man in the flesh was once again as astounding as he had first imagined. It’s ridiculous to package a human being with so many unfair advantages in life. That swagger wouldn’t work on anyone else in the world. It takes those gangly limbs and the tip of his head. It takes the mirrored sunglasses and the smirk to pull it off perfectly.</p>
<p>So when Crowley does saunter into his shop for the second time in two days, he is once again just as unprepared as the first time. It’s unfair really.</p>
<p>“Funny thing!” Crowley quips, once again starting as if they had been talking all day and not just meeting again. “I seem to keep misplacing my things. I asked Madame Tracy where my scarf had gone and she told me it was likely to be here.” This time he chooses to sprawl on the high stool next to a carousel of flyers and postcards and fridge magnets. Of course those hands are once again wandering over the display.</p>
<p>Zira’s unhelpful inner voice has to note how very tactile the man is and wonder what other sorts of things he touches. It takes Aziraphale so long to make these observations that Crowley has noticed the pause and stopped to raise a brow in his direction.</p>
<p>“Ah! Yes. It is here.” Aziraphale nods and berates himself for foolishness while reaching for the plastic box that Dee has decorated with Rocky Horror Picture Show lips and fangs and blood. -GAS- The label proclaims helpfully. Crowley tips his head down and peers at the label. “Huh. How?”</p>
<p>It was as Zira had feared, there wasn’t any natural way that Crowley had lost his scarf at the gas station. Crowley leans back on the stool and a small smirk is back on his face. “Angel, I don’t want to alarm you. But.” He points at the box where his scarf is coiled. “There seems to be shenanigans afoot.”</p>
<p>“Shenanigans?” Zira repeats as if he is innocent to these charges. He is only a little bit breathless at hearing the nickname again.</p>
<p>“Yes.” Crowley says gravely. “I don’t usually lose my things. And twice in a week is absurd. Oddly enough, they keep ending up here.” He turns back to rearranging the magnets on the carousel while Zira fights to find some explanation.</p>
<p>“Well, not too odd. Surely. It is the town’s lost and found. Everyone has a box here for things misplaced.” He gestures helpfully to the shelf of boxes.</p>
<p>“Mmmhmm.” Crowley responds with more than a little bit of skepticism in his voice. “I am quite certain that I didn’t lose my scarf at the gas station. Very. Certain.” He pins Zira with all the intensity of those black shades.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A nervous flutter rises in Aziraphale’s stomach. How is he going to explain his ridiculous friends? What were they even thinking?! “W-Well. It’s. Well I think, that is, I think it is my friends. Trying..”</p>
<p>He has half turned away from Crowley in nervous exasperation when suddenly there are long fingers wrapping around his arm. The redhead has unfolded in a single frantic burst of motion and is hauling Zira across the shop before he can even yelp in surprise. “What the devil!?” He manages to exclaim just before Crowley wrenches the door to the cleaning closet open and shoves him inside only to follow and ease the door almost shut behind them both. They are wedged into the tiny closet in the dark and Crowley is cursing a storm while peering through the smallest wedge. He seems to be focused on the enormous picture window that faces the street where the traffic on the sidewalk passes the shop.</p>
<p>“Crowley, I have to insist that you tell me what is going on.” Zira tries not to notice that his nose is almost touching his back.</p>
<p>Shutting the door completely plunges the closet into total darkness and Crowley puts his forehead on the door and sighs. “What were you telling me about your friends?” He asks as if he hasn’t just dragged Zira into a cleaning closet.</p>
<p>Aziraphale has to actively work at leaning back to keep from touching the warm stretch of Crowley’s back. Shifting to try to get better footing has his knee brushing the back of Crowley’s thighs and it’s so close that he can smell his shampoo and the hint of aftershave. It’s so distracting that he finds himself just answering Crowley instead of continuing to press him for an explanation of his own. “Ah. Well. It seems that my friends are keen on the idea of us meeting each other and they do want for me to be settled and have some sort of relationship. They really are not usually stealing things and acting out. They just worry about me.”</p>
<p>Crowley manages some impossible feat of acrobatics that turns him completely around to face Zira, not that it makes much difference with them being in a pitch black closet and his shades. “Oh!”He says in genuine surprise. “Really?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Zira manages before noticing that he had been totally derailed. “Crowley. What is..”</p>
<p>Crowley interrupts him before he can say another word. “Really? They saw me and thought I might get on with you? That we could date? Your friends were trying to hook us up?” He sounds completely confused by the notion.</p>
<p>“Well you don’t have to be so shocked. I might date somebody!” Zira instantly defends himself from remembered schoolyard bullying.</p>
<p>Crowley scoffs. “No, Angel. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course. You are nice.” He spits the word as if it is an insult. “I just. I don’t do nice. I’m not nice.”</p>
<p>“Oh? Well. Who told you that?” Zira counters with a certain tone that will brook no arguments.</p>
<p>Crowley makes some indescribable noise as if he might make an argument anyways. This time it is Aziraphale who interrupts. “Crowley. What are we doing in this closet?” He finally insists.</p>
<p>“I thought I saw somebody I know. Well, I’m sure I saw somebody I know.” Crowley explains.<br/>“Who was it?” Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s arm in the dark and clutches his sleeve.</p>
<p>“A friend.” Crowley says, “Well” he amends. “An enemy”</p>
<p>“You don’t know?” Zira asks. Crowley doesn’t really have an answer and only makes a frustrated noise before repeating his impossible feat of turning himself all the way back around to peer out the door.</p>
<p>“I think they have gone.” Crowley mutters. He shuts the door again, instead of freeing them both from the tiny space. “I’m sorry Angel. I didn’t mean to bring trouble here. I won’t bother you again.” His voice sounds so small and hurt that Zira can tell he isn’t at all happy with that decision.</p>
<p>“Crowley. If you are in trouble. Maybe I can help.” Zira is compelled to offer while reaching out to rest his palm on the slumped curve of Crowley’s shoulder. He can feel the lift of his shoulders with a sigh.</p>
<p>“No. Angel, this isn’t your problem. It’s ok. I can handle it.” His shoulders straighten with intention and he flings the door open wide to step away.</p>
<p>Zira is still blinking in the sudden burst of light when suddenly Crowley is crowding close again. Those glinting shades and the scent of his skin just inches away.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to bother you again. But. Can I kiss you? Just.” He leaves the rest of his sentence unfinished while Zira scrambles to catch up with the conversation. It is only a beat later that Crowley scrunches his face. “Never mind. I’m sorry.” He is already spinning away, about to head right out the door when Aziraphale gains some wild burst of boldness and catches Crowley’s hand.</p>
<p>The tall lean line of him is easier than Zira had imagined to haul close and arrange to his satisfaction. Those long limbs loose enough to flow into his arms like water. Before either of them can take another breath, Aziraphale has curved his fingertips around the sharp angle of Crowley’s jaw and drawn him close. They take that breath with lips touching, softly catching and sharing the warmth of it.</p>
<p>Crowley tastes of cinnamon and coffee and makes the tenderest sound of surrender into Zira’s mouth. It’s only a moment but it is enough for Aziraphale to decide right then and there that it won’t be the last of it. This will not be their last kiss. That is how he manages to wrangle himself free of the suddenly insistent grip that Crowley has on his waistcoat. The distance they manage is enough to remind him that he hasn’t ever seen Crowley’s eyes. Those impassive black lenses still shine back at him. Three resolutions have been made in the handful of seconds they kissed. One, If Crowley was in trouble, they were going to face it together. Two, he was going to get another kiss. And three, he was going to see those eyes one day.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. I've Lost my Way (maybe we are all faking anyway)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Shit shit shit shit SHIT!" Crowley shouts while slamming his palms on his steering wheel. What the fuck was that? What even was that? Adrenaline. That’s it. Must be it. Seeing Hastur strolling down the sidewalk just made him jumpy. That’s all it was.</p>
<p>Of course his bastard fucking mind won’t let him get away with the lie. He had wanted to hold that angel from the second he met the man. Shutting them into a closet where he could take in the scent of his cologne and feel his knee touching the back of his thighs. Yeah. That was the most brilliantly awful idea he had in ages. “By the way gorgeous man, I would really like to snog you because I make terrible decisions when I am panicking.” He mocks himself in a snide voice.</p>
<p>Why had he even shut them both into the closet? Hastur doesn’t know the bookseller. There is no logical reason for him to have dragged them both in there. But something protective and instinctive had shouted “danger!” and he was hauling them both into the closet and then like the king of dumbasses asking for kisses. Well he certainly can never go back there again. Not in a million years. That would mean facing the angel while knowing exactly how warm and soft he is. No. It was time to move along and take his fucking crap somewhere else before it rains hellfire down on people who don’t deserve it. Fuck. He is so goddamn tired.</p>
<p>Crowley parks his car two blocks from the bed and breakfast as usual. He cuts across back alleys and parking lots in an angle to scope the property before daring to approach the rambling victorian. No sign of the slouching blonde in a trenchcoat. Still, he can feel his skin itching like he is being watched. It's disconcerting.</p>
<p>Right. Time to pack his shit.</p>
<p>It all goes to hell as he stops over the threshold and into the living room. He freezes at the sight of Hastur lounging right there with Madame Tracy having a cup of tea.</p>
<p>Well that is typical isn’t it?</p>
<p>Welcome to another episode of “Life can’t stop fucking over Anthony Crowley”, he thinks helplessly as Hastur smiles and Madame Tracy chirps a happy comment about his “friend” that stopped by.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur flows from his seat with the shocking grace of the contract killer he is. Before Crowley can even properly panic, one pale thick hand is fisted in Madame Tracy’s dyed locks and the other is wrapped around her throat. Hastur has the woman half twisted in her seat and grimacing in pain and panic while his flat eyes focus on the frozen man in the doorway. Crowley feels a flicker of instinct. His training, all blood soaked that it is, slaps itself across his body and he scrabbles for his sidearm. Not there. Hasn’t been there for weeks. Is he ever going to get over that? The sensory tic that itches through his psyche whenever danger comes calling hasn’t faded yet. Can danger just lose his number already? He is done with it. But it doesn’t seem like it is done with him.</p>
<p>
  <strong>Four years ago</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>Raqqa, Syria</strong>
</p>
<p>War. War is a bitch, Crowley decided. Not just any bitch. He has considered this long and hard. She is a bitch in red leather pants. With a big ass fucking sword and a way of making everyone around her feel like they are desperate and wild and lost and so so angry. War has a lipstick smile and bright caffeinated eyes and she jitters and jukes across borders and into the hands of little children and old men. She doesn’t discriminate. She hates them all. Why is she a woman? Because she breaks your heart. That is why. She is alluring and drags eyes right into her fascinating step. There is an endless ticker tape parade of flicker flashing stats. Like this one. 10,000. 10,000 estimated dead last year. And this year looks like it is set up for the same. All fallen for the same tricky twist of fate, the will of madmen, pride, religion? Who the fuck knows anymore. Crowley sure doesn’t. Fuck it.</p>
<p>He is out of here anyway. Enlisting was a shitshow from the start. What was he thinking? The thin flat line of his mother’s disapproving mouth had pushed him right out the door. He had just been asking questions. Sure, they are well progressive about gay rights “But there is a line, Anthony.” A very definite line drawn right around gender that never much made any sense to him. So he poked that bear. Adolescence ripped through any possibility of ever settling there at home. He could soak up all that misery every single day until he died or go ahead and piss them all the way off and get the boot. He picked the boot. He seems to always choose the boot.</p>
<p>Homelessness is not appealing even a little bit and the bright confident smile of the recruiter hid the lipstick leather bitch just enough to get him in the door. It’s not a terribly unusual story. Queer kid gets ousted from home and joins the military. Happens every damn day. Funny how they seem to think there aren’t many outcasts here. Ha! The cammo cult has it’s work cut out to press all these little gay and bi and gender nonconforming wierdos into suitable fodder for the charnel house.</p>
<p>Oh goody now they get to be the boot instead of just taking it.</p>
<p>And here it is again, aimed right at his backside. “Dishonorably discharged”. Pfft. As if there is any honorable way to go about murdering other people. Sure. Fine. He was just asking questions. One of his fellow boots on the ground had tearfully admitted that she preferred high heels and needed resources for gender transition while serving. So Crowley had taken the flak. Decided to be the one asking questions. The shy girl wouldn’t have taken it as well. Crowley figures he is better at taking that boot than most. Of course, it turned into a massive instance of getting fucked over. So yeah. Fine. He is out of here. War can go plant her bloody kisses elsewhere.</p>
<p>
  <strong>Three years ago</strong>
</p>
<p>“Well isn’t this just a thrilling round of life fucking me over!” Crowley splutters and rips his tie from around his neck. Fucking wankers. Not a single bloody job. Not one. Not anything. Or wait, no. There was. But war has a funny way of totally destroying your hips and back and making it impossible to be in the service industry or a factory drone. Carrying shit and standing all day, can’t do it. He left Syria with a wobbly stagger that he manages to swing into a lazy looking swagger. Two pins in his knees and well on the way to a hip replacement says different. Since when does pushing buttons on a calculator require a four year degree? For fucks sake. His only marketable skill is with a sidearm and a hand grenade. Suburbia is fresh out of jobs for that sort of thing. Go figure.</p>
<p>Until there is one. A mutual acquaintance with war. They all called him Marvin. Some juvenile joke about his voracious appetite. Not for food. For “scalps”. For “action”. Starvin Marvin could eat, drink, and sleep combat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He never lost that shine. They all had been amped the first and second times into the fray. Everyone except Marvin lost the appetite real quick. It actually helped a lot. To have him around. He would shout out “Y'ALL HUNGRY BOYS?” and they would shout back “WE ARE STARVIN MARVIN”. Everyone can feel like a saint next to a demon. They didn’t have to feel so guilty about that accident or this skirmish. Nah. It was war and they could move on to the next thing. Marvin was moving just fine. Hell, Marvin was stoked. This was a grand ol time. Everyone clung onto that small mercy in the middle of the muck. They needed Marvin just like Marvin needed that next little juke of adrenaline.</p>
<p>And here he was. On the phone. “Looking him up”. Wanting to connect. Yeah. A civilian, for real? Never would have thought that. But ol Marvin seems to have landed ok. He is just as fucked in the head as the next purple hearted victim. But it's ok. He owns a restaurant chain! Of all things! HA! That starving bastard went ahead and built up a Marvin’s Burger Palace. Trippy. A wild eyed trigger happy maniac making burgers. You never know who somebody is going to be after serving. Turns out he is getting into the personal security business too. Expanding his interests. Misses a little taste of his old job Crowley figures. Even if he is going to have to enjoy it from the seat of his wheelchair. Personal security is good business and he wants to know if Crowley will take a job. Watching some privileged fucks have dinner parties and take Senator’s girlfriends to private hotel rooms?</p>
<p>Sounds like he might be able to use those skills after all.</p>
<p>
  <strong>Six weeks ago</strong>
</p>
<p>Marvin had treated Crowley so damn well. Big fat paycheck and slick new surroundings. A whole new echelon of class and gloss to schmooze with. And better than that. A vintage Bentley. A fucking tank of a relic. A bitch to repair and he was so in love with it that he didn’t dare ask how the fuck it happened. It was too beautiful to go poking his nose around and ask questions. He had done that plenty, thank you.</p>
<p>Well until he sees something he shouldn’t have. Burger Palace is laundering cartel money and ol Marvin has the heavies in “security” working out some private business when Crowley manages to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.</p>
<p>In the ten seconds he has left before his ass is toast, he manages to think “Well here is that boot again. This fucking sucks and I am so tired.” Then Crowley is packing his shit and hitting the road.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. When I think about you (there might be some touching involved)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale has managed to keep his imagination regarding a certainly lanky redhead in check all afternoon. Every time his thoughts would wander down that path he promised himself increasingly escalating rewards for pushing it aside. He is now up to the level of ordering in some Thai delivery and using his best bath oil. </p>
<p>It is rather unfortunate that he is halfway through this indulgence before realising that it has sabotaged his own wondrous restraint. Holding the chopsticks and lifting a little morsel of basil infused tofu really does make him wonder what Crowley enjoys eating. And that bath was the worst sort of idea. Once he gets started down this hedonistic little jaunt he has invited a host of delights to play. The perfumed water sliding down his skin has brought to mind how luxurious it is to be touched. So of course he doesn’t hesitate even a minute before sliding his own broad warm palms down his flanks. Only, his mind has conjured those freckled hands to replace his own. Crowley had touched everything with this soft sense that he can’t see properly without using the tips of his fingers. Like the man has to trace the shape of things to know them better. His slender fingers danced and flickered along the edges as if the world was spun glass. Until that kiss. Then they had grasped the edge of Aziraphale’s coat so tightly that his lapel still held the wrinkle. Those hands had pressed something permanent in him for sure. It was the faintest hint of a loss of control. A clear indication that Crowley had been affected. Aziraphale’s busy mind doesn’t bother to stop there of course, one doesn’t steep themselves in stories without absorbing some habit of embellishment. The thought of Crowley losing some control elicits further speculations about what else could be teased from the man. </p>
<p>The shaded glasses say something pretty definite about walls and borders and so do the clothes. If anyone was casually telling the world to fuck off and leave him alone, it is Crowley.  But he is the one that flirted. He was the one that stood there asking for a kiss. Heavens. Had that really happened? He hadn’t imagined it. Crowley had stood there with tension in the lift of his shoulders. Those gangly limbs had been still for the first time since they met. Waiting. This is how Crowley looks when he is obviously panicked. Something had spurred him to actually ask for something. Aziraphale pokes the tip of his tongue against the bow of his upper lip and imagines he can still taste Crowley there. </p>
<p>Then the most wicked thought comes to his mind. Crowley had not picked up his scarf. It was still down there. The closet and the kissing had completely distracted them both from the entire reason Crowley had stopped by. It means that perhaps the man will have to come over again. It means that just downstairs is a soft length of fabric that probably has the scent of Crowley’s skin trapped in it. He could. Well. He could go down there after his bath and take out that scarf and hold it in his hands. Aziraphale’s face flares with heat just thinking about how wildly inappropriate it would be. If he went down there in the dark and retrieved it. </p>
<p>He does it anyway. Firmly ignoring his embarrassed conscience, he slides the box out and takes the soft bit of fabric into his hands. Once he has committed to this course of action, he decides that it doesn’t matter much now if he raises it to his cheek. The woody mix of bergamot, clove, and sandalwood has infused the thin bit of cloth. It had picked up the scent of cologne where Crowley had sprayed over his neck and chest. Or perhaps smoothed as oil over his pulse. Just as trendy and expensive as the cloth itself. </p>
<p>Aziraphale finds himself curled up warm and pampered in bed, still holding the scarf. His reluctance to let go of it isn’t something he wants to confront rationally. Instead, he has gone about his bedtime routine all while carefully draping the scarf over his arms or neck. It’s like having Crowley there with him. His black shades flashing, head tipping, circling him with those long angles and smirks. It is the first time that Zira has not felt utterly alone as he settles in for sleep. Since that awful day his mother left the world. He comforts himself in that feeling, glad that it isn’t the salacious burning ache he had felt in the bath. There. He is not as bad as all that. He isn’t quite that desperate or ridiculous. He doesn’t even know the man! Just a little bit of company. That is all. A friend. Somebody who doesn’t make him feel like the ridiculous embarrassment he is. </p>
<p>The illusion doesn’t last because Zira is the worst liar. He can’t convince himself that all he wants is friendship from Crowley. Because of that damned kiss. What was that kiss anyway? They hadn’t discussed a single word about any sort of arrangement between them and there is this unexplained landmine right in the middle of what used to be the well tended garden of Zira’s inner world. </p>
<p>Now there is a flashpoint buried somewhere beneath his skin. Planted there by that soft little sound Crowley had made. His mouth had been so hungry. Tender and soft but so eager. Nobody had ever kissed Aziraphale with that sense of urgency and need. Not ever. He had been kissed dutifully. A date playing the role they assigned themselves at the agreed upon time at the agreed upon place. He had been kissed as punishment before. Angry young soldiers who still drip with the hate of their peers and fathers and want to sink all that fear and anger behind the teeth of the first person to get in their way. He had been kissed out of boredom or curiosity. Where he had been a placeholder for some fantasy or an escape from reality. </p>
<p>Somehow, without even talking about it, Zira could sense that it wasn’t that. This kiss. Crowley had been present. Totally accounted for. And kissing him. Just him. Without any sort of duty or agenda or plan. He sounded just as shocked as Aziraphale had been. That soft gasp. The way his hands shook and clenched so tightly. The angle of his jaw had flexed beneath Zira’s fingertips as they had adjusted to fit together. That hint of stubble tingling against his palm. The taste of him. Crowley had leaned into Aziraphale. Let him take some of his weight. As if his legs had gone shaky. As if he trusted the librarian to be steady for him. To hold all the tangle of him together. He would have taken it all if the man had given it. He wanted that. To feel Crowley collapsing and holding on and trusting him like that. Those long legs around his waist. He is quite sure he could manage lifting him, if only to turn and spill him onto the nearest flat surface. </p>
<p>Aziraphale rolls onto his side with the scarf tucked between his face and the pillow. He turns his face to rub his lips over the fabric. He breathes in Crowley’s gorgeous scent. His entire body has become a flame as he trips over the landmine again. That soft unexpectedly vulnerable and shocked sound. Crowley had pushed that sound over their touching lips into Aziraphale’s mouth. He can’t get it out of his mind. </p>
<p>Aziraphale can think about their conversations and hold onto his daydreams with a rational and logical sort of orderly reason. He can work out the steps and excuses for how he feels about their surprising little closet rendezvous. He can even carefully weigh out the shape and size of his emotions about being kissed. </p>
<p>It's that sound. It snags on every single totally ignored instinct he might harbor somewhere behind his politeness and dignity. He had no idea that this emotion existed in himself. It isn’t the least bit polite or dignified. It has him twisting beneath his sheets right now. Pressing his tight fist around his aching cock and gasping from it. It’s something flowering open inside his chest that looks a little bit like driving that sound from Crowley’s pretty kissed lips over and over. It feels like twisting his hands in the copper mess of his hair and tugging his head back and licking that sound where it rumbles up his throat. Like chasing that soft little gasp right into the back of his throat with one tight thrust. It was only a second of surrender but Aziraphale wants to pile them up like jewels. He wants to find that sound in every patch of skin that inspires it. His nipples, his hips. Where else does that weak, soft, hungry, desperate noise live? Maybe on the back of his neck where he can sink his teeth while holding him tight. Zira softly whines at the imagined sound and wishes it wasn’t just his own familiar voice answering back. </p>
<p>The cold cleanup and guilty feeling he has when he tucks that scarf back into the box is actually worth it though. That bright ringing clarity of purpose has only settled even more comfortably in his chest. He is going to somehow convince Crowley to stay. At least for time enough to reconcile the distance between his reasoned and rational mind and whatever the hell that wild twisting ache is asking for.</p>
<p>He is so focused on his purpose and his daydreams that he almost misses the conversation between Anathema and Shadwell over breakfast. He only catches the tail end of the conversation but it had sounded like Madame Tracy hadn’t shown up for her morning gossip and coffee at the cafe this morning. His ears had perked at the mention of Crowley. The visitor had made it a habit to walk Tracy over to the cafe every morning. Nobody had seen either of them. A cold sinking feeling of dread settles in the pit of his stomach as he remembers the tight pinch of Crowley’s hand dragging him across the room. His panicked reaction to somebody outside the window. There is no way it is a coincidence. Crowley and Tracy are in trouble. They must be!</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Can I Have a Little of your Time (I'll give it back. I swear)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time dilation is one of the trickier little pockets of magic that exist in the human body. The cost of such a thing is enough to splinter the little pieces of your mind into jagged horrors that visit for the rest of your life. It can be worth it though. It’s some evolutionary loophole around the slow mass of our intellect turning to face the tiger. Aziraphale has just slipped that loophole around this moment and tightened the knot. He is launching all of his weight from the heel of his back foot and angling his body into a tighter and narrower wedge behind the weapon in his hands. He is terrified. His opponent is armed. Armed and alert and snarling. This isn’t the moment to panic though. That had been four hours ago, when they had received the call. Crowley’s calm happy voice so nonchalant and outlining the terms for Tracy’s release. </p>
<p>Four hours. And every single second jangled and dragged Aziraphale’s nerves raw. Too long. It had taken too long. But one thing that dealing with his mother’s cancer had taught him is all about having a plan. </p>
<p>For about six weeks after his mother told him that she was not long for this planet, he had spun out into wild action. No plan. No steady hand on the tiller. It had caused more of a mess than it fixed. His anxiety had mounted and mounted until he found himself angrily shouting at her while scrubbing vomit from the floor. It had hit him then. She only had months left, and that is if the doctors had estimated things correctly. He hadn’t drawn up a single idea for facing their every day struggles. Only reacting with nerves and fear every time they faced a new obstacle. It wasn’t helping. </p>
<p>That same choking wild fear had been riding him all day long. A feeling of premature loss. The giant wrecking ball heading for his face. And it was familiar this time. You can’t just snap your fingers and will away anxiety, you can’t stop the jittery flutter of your pulse or the sting of your eyes as you move from task to task. But you CAN set together a plan. You can pace yourself within the exhausting marathon that is life. </p>
<p>He made a list. People that might know where Crowley and Tracy could be held. Top of that list was Dee. They tended to haunt abandoned places, junkyards, empty fields. If anyone would know a place to stash two kidnap victims, it would be Dee. “They are at the Depot.” Dee said with quiet confidence. </p>
<p>“How on earth do you know that?” Aziraphale asks in shock. “Did you see them?” He reaches for Dee’s arm to stop and impress upon them the urgency of the matter.</p>
<p>“No. Of course not. Just. Tracy isn’t gonna be quiet. She will give them hell. And they can’t risk any of the open fields this early in the day. Too many early risers and farm folks. That eliminates anything beyond the Monsanto crop out west. So east is your best bet. The depot is abandoned. Shelter and plenty of land. It’s where I would go.” They insist with a nod and then grimace. “Well. Unless they left town.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale sets his face with a determined expression. “No. We aren’t going to think that at all.” If he thinks that, he will probably just sit on the ground and cry. This is no time for those hysterics. Twenty minutes later he is angling toward the abandoned train depot with Dee. They are walking so casually, that it makes Aziraphale feel like screaming. He wants to dodge from tree to tree. He wants to run. To release some of this pent up energy. But of course Dee is right. Going faster will only wear them out for no reason and make them obvious against the landscape. Dodging from tree to tree would look ridiculous and accomplish nothing. A steady amble down the gravelled leftover skeleton of tracks won’t draw attention like a car would. Picking their way around two rusted out train cars, they scramble through a patch of brambling weeds and suddenly are within eyeshot of the backside of the building.</p>
<p>Success! There is a muddy colored pickup truck parked with the bed backed up toward the building. Ok. A truck he doesn’t recognise. In their town, it means something. Whoever Crowley was so afraid of, might be here. It is both a relief and torment to know. Maybe they haven’t left. He almost has a heart attack when his phone goes off. Both he and Dee dive for the nearest train car for cover as he tries to answer the phone and watch the building and run all at the same time. It is Anathema. Shadwell had received a call. Since he shares the other side of the Bed and Breakfast and (everyone speculates) even more with Madame Tracy. The duplex home was the oddest B&amp;B, but like so many things in that little town, odd belonged here. </p>
<p>It had been Crowley. </p>
<p>He said he had kidnapped Tracy and wanted a ransom. It was complete horseshit. Aziraphale instantly asserted. Anathema was quick to side with him in agreement. Shadwell had been shaken by the call and only half convinced that Crowley wasn’t the party to blame. He had been deeply suspicious of slinky young city dwellers wandering about their little burg. Anathema had managed to convince him otherwise, but only by a hair. The argument is so distracting that Zira almost forgets to tell them about the truck. Relaying the plate details and description to the folks in town might give Shadwell something to do other than grab his blunderbuss and stomp out to the depot and start shooting. What Shadwell lacks in good sense he often makes up for with loud ancient weapons. </p>
<p>He still didn’t have his plan in place. The little jaunt out to the depot and walk to his shop had eaten over an hour. But something was forming in his mind. He needed a city council meeting. Well, they pretty much already had one started up at the cafe so he supposes it will do. Dee is still tagging along and keeping him from an anxious meltdown with their calm quiet presence. Seriously. They should bottle whatever miasma of tranquility that seems to float around them. Well, once you get past the initial nerves that are brought on by intensely terrifying haircuts and several pounds of metal piercings. </p>
<p>Two hours ago he had cobbled together some rough plan. Anathema is cradling a cell phone against her shoulder and taking notes. Shadwell is shockingly quiet. It’s actually disconcerting to see the man hunched over his coffee and nodding agreement to whatever he and Anathema’s husband, Newt are talking about. The tense feeling at the cafe is stifling, something that Tracy would have immediately been able to lighten. But she isn’t here. </p>
<p>He will do whatever it takes, to get them both back.</p>
<p>The last four hours have turned over and over in Aziraphales mind as this moment stretches, infinite and terrifying. Had he done enough? Planned for everything? But the last thought that clings and sticks is this one: “Whatever it takes.”</p>
<p>The thought going through Crowley’s mind in this moment is not nearly so noble. It is something like this:  “What the fuck? Did Zira just drop out of the sky screaming bloody murder while wielding a giant stick and wearing a dress?”</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Your Smile (is a gift I didn't know I deserved)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zira had been keen to attempt some sport to negate some of the effect that bullying and sedentary life had saddled him with. His sturdy broad frame held a surprising resilience that might take a beating without hardly a flinch. His first attempt had been trying his hand at fencing. It was definitely a sport that suited his fussy mannerisms and his fondness for antiquity. But it was a lighter ballet of sport. Fencing was like dancing on a high wire. He had succeeded but never excelled with the foils. It had been a blow to the ego and some unsurprising part of himself had whispered quietly that he had been a fool to even try such a thing. Sports were for fit and socially exuberant fellows, not soft introverted bookworms such as he. </p>
<p>This reasoning had held solid until the very first time he had seen kendo. The leftover legacy of the samurai. The art of wielding a sword. Everything about the sport was appealing to his fastidious soul. The orderly forms and stances, the grounding determination in holding your body like a boulder planted in a field. The ancient traditional volumes of material and history all wrapped up into something he could sink his mind into. He not only excelled, he flourished. The resilience of his solid body and the unyielding force of his arms and hands had only grown over the years of steady practice and discipline. Right now, flying from the top of an abandoned rail car, Zira is at the height of his discipline. He is perfectly poised at the intersection where years of training meets perfectly with strength of body before the waning of the latter. He is literally the last man you want to meet in a crumbling old train yard wielding a meter long stick. The shinai is deceptively innocuous. Compared to the lethal shining blade it represents, the shinai might make you think it is a silly stand in. The comical vision of his kendogi and hakama flying out like great wings only adds to the surreal image. </p>
<p>The average kendo match lasts either two or five minutes with very politely screaming and ritualized combatants. The match between this whirling dervish and his completely dumbfounded and armed opponent lasts about thirty seconds. It is certain that if time dilated for him, he didn’t spend that time being grateful that the shinai was built to be non lethal. A bamboo stick crunching into the cartilage of your nose has an urgency that transcends the nature of the weapon that dealt the blow. He might have had a moment or two to ponder the ridiculousness of some guy flying out of nowhere and beating the shit out of him with a steady hand that implies he does this every day. Small towns generally don’t harbor ninja warriors. Not all towns are Haven though and Hastur is handled with swift and righteous fury. The gun has skittered into a weedy patch of track and the moaning lump of dirty suit is clutching his face and trying to get the wind to crawl back onto his shaking feet.</p>
<p>The one thing that kendo hadn’t managed to prepare him for, is a second opponent. Zira had no warning and no time to prepare for the launch of another body into his. The tackle catches him mid-waist and completely off guard. He had no idea a second man was even there. For a moment, he has the horrifying thought that maybe Crowley really was on their side! But something about the weight of this unexpected foe is enough to clue him in. That and the heavy scent of cigarettes. </p>
<p>Both of them go down in a scrabbling heap and the element of surprise is enough of an advantage to his attacker. His hair is taken into a fist and yanked until he is gasping and bucking to try to dislodge the man from where he has pinned him down. He is only able to resist the assault for a few grunting heaving seconds before an arm is locked around his throat and the world begins to whirl and spin before his eyes. Had he done enough? Had he purchased enough time with his gambit? He wasn’t going to find out because all the flickering lights of consciousness are dimming with alarming speed. The last thing his mind registers is the glimpse of two figures slumped against each other inside one of the abandoned cars. From his vantage point on the ground he can see plastic zip ties cutting into the narrow bones of a fine turned wrist. He would recognize that hand anywhere. Crowley and Madame Tracy are so close. If only he could call out to them. But his body cannot hold out any longer and the black rushes up to swallow him whole.</p>
<p>Driving an ancient car is a bit of magic all its own. There are little quirks and foibles that every old machine takes on that might give you the odd notion that it has somehow gained sentience. Anyone who is well acquainted with any machine that is as old as they Bentley will tell you about leaning just a certain way when opening the doors, and about how the car prefers to be fueled or patted on the bonnet when doing a particularly good job of existing. So it is no surprise that Anathema Device had truly stomped on the brakes after barreling into the train depot at full speed (which for a car that ancient was probably inching up at 60 mph) but the old girl had resisted the loss of momentum. The Bentley, after all, was made of solid British steel and hurtling is not so easily stopped once it gets going. It was truly an accident and not at all her fault that the ancient car had accidentally tapped the shins of the man standing right in the way. Well, tapping might be an understatement since the car shattered his right tibia and his left ankle in the process. Anathema had fervently apologized the entire time that Shadwell was securing the screaming man. She continued apologizing as they led the federal agents into the decaying train car where three prisoners were bound and one obvious accomplice was guarding them while surrounded with a pile of bloody tissue. </p>
<p>Both Crowley and Tracey had been drugged and she had evidence of cuts beneath her chin and ear. She had obviously been menaced with a knife. Slowly they manage to rouse Crowley to lift his head and respond when suddenly he is shouting. “MY CAR!” while attempting to struggle free of the plastic zip ties that a federal officer is hastily trying to photograph. Everyone turns toward the old girl. She is rather quickly being engulfed in flames. Apparently, the kidnapping accomplice, (his name actually being Ligur is suspect) had been smoking a cigarette when he had gotten that love tap. The lit cig had rolled beneath the car and caught on some weeds there. Now she is roiling in flames and there is yet another emergency crew that screams onto the scene. Poor Crowley. His distress over the car is worse than his distress over his own broken fingers and the bruised cheekbone that has his eye almost swollen shut. </p>
<p>Anathema has the most uncanny way of rerouting the questions around Crowley’s involvement in the entire situation. A way of knowing just when the subject might be drifting too close for comfort and making the perfect sly move to counteract any sort of inquiry. The man himself is excused from most of the questioning because he is bundled into an ambulance despite his weak objections and expletives about his car.</p>
<p>Time always takes its revenge because the next few hours are a total blur for Zira. Before he can hardly get his head around everything that had just gone down, he is sitting in a booth at the cafe. A similarly dazed and speechless Crowley is sprawled in the seat opposite him. Everyone seems to have found some highly questionable reason to leave them alone there but Zira can still feel that familiar small town attention being paid to this particular corner of the cafe.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.” Crowley attempts to say and is instantly chastened by a shake of Zira’s head. “I didn’t mean to--” He tries again and the bookseller reaches to touch his fingertips. It is effective at drying up the apology that Crowley keeps trying to make.</p>
<p>Suddenly it dawns on Zira exactly why Crowley looks so different. So vulnerable. Open. His sunglasses are gone. The emergency room had patched his cheek and one eye still sports a purple black splotchy bruise. His red gold lashes frame wide whiskey brown eyes. The evening light bounces back from their warm depths to highlight the yellow gold iris rimmed with a darker brown ring. They spark and shine with almost too much feeling. He knows suddenly exactly why Crowley covers his eyes. It is impossible to hide any feeling behind such expressive warmth. Every emotion would shine there like a beacon. Just now, that emotion is embarrassment and apology. His darting gaze refuses to meet Zira’s by looking absolutely anywhere but directly at him. Right now he is staring at the tips of Aziraphale’s fingers where they are touching the back of his hand. Ah, that’s right. He had reached out. It had seemed so instinctive. Now they are practically holding hands. Or they would be if Crowley turned his hand over.</p>
<p>“You have nothing to apologize for.” Zira says quietly. </p>
<p>“It’s my fault they were here.” Crowley insists.</p>
<p>“Did you tell them to hurt Tracy?” Zira asks, already knowing the answer.</p>
<p>“No.” Crowley admits. “But they wouldn’t have been here. If--” His hand curves to pick at the tabletop but doesn’t pull away from the fingertips that still rest lightly there. </p>
<p>“Crowley, I’m glad you came here.” the bookseller interrupts.</p>
<p>The redhead’s eyes flicker up finally. “Why?” he asks with blunt surprise.<br/>“You would have been dealing with them alone. I wouldn’t have met you.”  Zira replies without missing a beat.</p>
<p>This is over the limit of plausible reasoning to Crowley. “You don’t even know me.” He shoots back with a disbelieving huff.</p>
<p>“Well, that sounds like something we can fix.” Zira replies with a steadiness that hints at a streak of stubborn will. </p>
<p>Crowley only blinks at him, seemingly speechless.</p>
<p>“So. Tell me where you are from.” Zira insists and curves his fingertips over the graceful curve of Crowley’s wrist. He squeezes once before retrieving his hand and sitting back to give him the space to reply. </p>
<p>It is hours later before they finally take a pause from the flow of conversation. They hadn’t even  noticed the cafe is now cloaked in deep shadows, only the lights over their section are on. Darkness has descended and absolutely everyone has cleared out for the night. </p>
<p>“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims softly and follows with a sheepish smile as they survey the deserted cafe. </p>
<p>“Shit.” Crowley shakes his head and scrubs the back of his neck with his palm. “I really should get going. I didn’t realise it was late.”</p>
<p>This moment suddenly seems so fragile. There is some hint that a decision at this crossroad might change everything. Aziraphale is reminded of that decision he made with the shinai in his hand. The decision he made just after tasting Crowley’s mouth in his little bookshop. He is tired of being forever temperate and measured. He has found something infinitely worthy and precious. Something unexpected and exciting, yes. But also, something ineffable. Something he couldn’t describe with words. He could play at some game that has rules and regulations and respectable notions. He could probably ask after his new friend tomorrow. Zira could invite him for a date and they could step through all the hoops. It would be lovely. He is quite sure it would be. </p>
<p>But there is something banked and guarded in Crowley’s eyes. Something that says he is still unsure of his worth. He is expecting to be hurt. Aziraphale isn’t sure how he even knows it, but some people have a graveyard inside their bones. They have buried every hope and dream and lock the doors and never dare peek over the fence. Crowley will put those damned sunglasses back on and retreat behind the silvery slick of them tomorrow. He will put on that flirting smile and Zira will have missed the chance. Sure, he can reroute all the way back around to this place. He doesn’t doubt it at all. </p>
<p>But today, right now, he feels a slow pretty burn. It happened sometime in the last few hours. Something had sparked happiness in those whiskey gold eyes and the inviting warmth in them lit a quiet ache in Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley had shredded a napkin with his ever moving hands and the bookseller had intently watched every single motion with fascination. Twice, Crowley had bit his lip between words and Zira’s pulse tripped. His clever easy charm has served Crowley well. It is easy to see that he has drawn people in and the librarian would be the first to admit freely that he is no exception. He has been enchanted completely. Enchanted but not blinded. </p>
<p>This man doesn’t know he is beautiful. He doesn’t know he is worthy. Zira has seen it before. Those bright eyes might be as different from his mother’s cornflower pale eyes as dusk is from dawn. But the hurt that lives there is the same. She had been lost too. Tossed aside. Pushed into the space where single mothers go in small towns. Sure, there were always patronizing gestures made toward her situation. But who held her shaking hands when she was so exhausted and sleep deprived and forced to accept the charity of others. How many times had some handsome stranger smiled right up until the minute they spied the towheaded boy sidled to her hip? What crushing loneliness bent her will until she found refuge inside her books? She set up a life for her son by coping through her only means of escape. What had it been like to get her death sentence with only him there to pick up her guilty debts in the aftermath? She was beautiful to Zira. She was strong and kind and warm. And he told her that every day at the end. He had held her IV bruised fingers and promised that he would be ok. But he hadn’t been ok. The axis of his life had been ripped free. The beauty and family in his life was gone and he was pretty sure it might kill him. </p>
<p>Until just a few days ago. This bright beauty shining right here with an embarrassed sort of softness had changed everything. And that spot in his chest, the one that had ached and burned every single day for the last five years was finally soothed. Right now, Crowley doesn’t know and the ineffable nature of this crossroads means that Zira can’t possibly say the right words to tell him. There aren’t any. He had lost something precious and good and bright. And here it is, shining there, so fragile and within his grasp. He made up his mind with the shinai in his hand. He had made up his mind with the taste of Crowley’s mouth. No games. It's too precious for that. </p>
<p>“Crowley. Come home with me. Come to the bookshop. It isn’t that late just yet. And I still have your scarf.” </p>
<p>There it is, the soft joy that flickers to life behind those pretty eyes. Goddamn, Aziraphale wants to make him smile again and again.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Where exactly does this go? (There isn't a box named Love)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They are halfway to the bookshop before Crowley breaks the suddenly awkward silence. “Angel, I don’t want to assume you are inviting me over for---” His sentence is completely interrupted by Aziraphale reaching for his hand. Once their fingers are entwined, Zira tugs Crowley back into motion.</p><p>“You can assume that I’m going to at least ask for another kiss, beyond that, well I am up for suggestions.”</p><p>If Crowley had been wearing his sunglasses he might have looked cool and calm for the rest of their walk, but without them, those pretty eyes keep flickering over to the smug happy look on Zira’s face.</p><p>There is a wild scrambling calculation going on behind every glance. There are rules to these sorts of things. A natural order that doesn’t involve kidnapping plots and fussy beautiful librarians.</p><p>The lanky ex soldier had figured it all out. Categories. Just like those neat boxes tucked under the bookstore counter, every one of his intimacies has easily fallen right where they belong. There is one category called “hookups and tinder dates and banging exes and friends with benefits”. Which is a startlingly long name for a startling short list of people that Crowley had messed about with. Far fewer lately. He is getting too damn cranky for that shit.</p><p>The other category is only labeled “romance” but it comes with this vaguely sprawling confusing blend of feelings and dates and words like “commitment”. He is completely sure he knew exactly how it worked until about a week ago. Now he is sitting here holding this bright new thing and he doesn’t know where it goes. He keeps catching himself spilling it right into that “romance” box with wild abandon. He stops short every time and reminds himself of the facts. He met the man this week for fucks sake!</p><p>Suddenly there is no more time for deciding. They have reached their destination in the quiet doorway of the shop. Crowley can only register the shaking jangle of Zira fumbling the keys into the lock and they are alone in the soft book scented gloom. The librarian doesn’t wait another breath but reaches to catch Crowley close. Those sword calloused fingers tuck around the nape of his neck and he feels the scrape of them all the way to his toes. Too much surprise and newness had laced their last kiss. This one is heartbreakingly tender and carrying an expectant heat that flares between Crowley’s ribs.</p><p>His confused thoughts seek to latch onto some anchor and he finds a ragged little memory somewhere in the heap. Thrown away. Discarded and hungry and without a single soul that would mourn his death. He had reached for his family, reached for them and asked for love. For the ripe sweet nourishment of home. He had drawn his hands back full of a new perspective on the world. A handful of knowledge. Some families aren’t prepared to give what a gangly teen of a queer needs. The heartsick rotten peachy tang of <em>not good enough</em>. He had swallowed it all down because he had to eat something. He accepted the mealy grit of it. That painful swollen ache had been stuck there ever since. A stone pit from some evil fruit. The swallowing of every offense and insult just calcified there. He hadn’t cried since then. All of his tears are caught there behind that rotten bite. He wishes he could go back to that moment. Whisper into that kid’s ear, this secret: <em>You will find home one day. That burning stone in your throat will not be there forever. There is an angel to pluck it free</em>.</p><p>“Oh there you are, you sweet thing.” Aziraphale murmurs against his mouth when Crowley finally remembers to kiss him back. How the man can manage words at a time like this is outrageous. Crowley would be impressed if he wasn’t trying to somehow merge his shadow blade body inside some folding corner of Aziraphale’s embrace. His attempts only push a soft happy giggle from his angel as they migrate directly into the nearest bookshelf. The enthusiastic hip check causes a threatening rustle from offended literature and Zira bites his bottom lip in reprimand. Crowley does manage in the shuffle of his feelings to be grateful for the darkness hiding how desperate his face must look. He might recover eventually. It doesn’t seem likely though, when those warm hands are skating below the hem of his shirt and his disbelieving thoughts spin <em>impossible! Incredible!</em></p><p>It had only been a week and already his parched heart had seen the slaking blue shine in Zira’s eyes. Already his shaking palms turn out toward the warm wide curve of his hips like seeking their resting place. <em>There you are. I’ve been looking for so long</em>. All answered by the soft humming affirmation in those soft sighs. I must have checked a thousand places. Here you are, after all. Right when I had stopped looking for it. Hoping for it. He feels shot through with hope, made transparent by it and shining with some prismatic sign flashing something embarrassing. Like, “<em>How on earth did I end up here anyways</em>?”</p><p>“I just couldn’t watch you slink across one more room without my hands on you.” Zira mutters against the curve of Crowley’s throat. As if to demonstrate, he spears his fingertips into the intricate production of his hair.</p><p>“Well, don’t let me stop you, Angel.” Crowley manages to gasp while hanging on to Zira’s hips for dear life.</p><p>“Are you trying to stop me?” The tone of Zira’s question is altogether pleased and miraculously calm considering the circumstances. “Because you aren’t doing a very good job of it.” He demonstrates his point by dragging another ridiculous moan from Crowley with a gentle tug on his hair.</p><p>When Crowley can uncross his eyes enough to think again it is only enough to concede his defeat. “Maybe later.” He says around a smile.</p><p>Zira sounds a little bit amused and more than a little bit wicked “Well, tell me when you start. I would hate to miss it.”<br/>Crowley does stop then, licking his cherry kissed lips and blinking those bright eyes. “You are a bit of a bastard aren’t you?” He asks with surprise lacing his tone.</p><p>The smile lines that brace Zira’s eyes crinkle with the amused chagrin of a cat caught in the cream.</p><p>“I bet not a single soul in this world knows what a clever menace you are.” Crowley shakes his head in disbelief while fiddling the bowtie at Zira’s throat into submission.</p><p>“I have no idea what you are talking about!” the bookseller insists with feigned innocence.</p><p>“You aren’t fooling me, Angel.” Crowley returns with a happy huff of pleasure when the tie falls open and several buttons have graciously done him the favor of letting his trembling fingers succeed in parting his shirt. “You sound exactly like a man who would not mind too much if I resisted just a little bit. Just enough to make it fun.”</p><p>The bright pink flush that spreads across Aziraphale’s face is enough of an answer. Oh but he is beautiful. All pink and white and soft as a cloud. Crowley is spurred again to the hot urgency of the moment. At some point his insensate mind manages to register the raw strength of Zira hoisting him up by the thighs to toss him back onto an enormous bed. For a second he considers the logistics of how in the world such a big bed got up the stairs into the tiny loft apartment. Then his helpful brain reminds him of how the flexing strength of those arms had wielded the shinai and how deft they had been in lifting him. Zira had probably just hauled the bed by himself. It’s such a provocative thought. Once again he is making some stupid noise and tries to hide it behind his forearm while Zira hikes his teeshirt all the way up his chest.</p><p>Aziraphale is having none of it though, his relentless effort to unwind Crowley and hear all of those soft sweet little gasps will not tolerate his attempts to hide them. Gripping his slender wrist and pinning it above his head seems to do just fine, if anything it increases the vehemence and volume of the swearing and gasping that his teeth inspire.</p><p>There is a moment when something cracks free inside them both. A flooding relief of being found. Of being seen. Wanted. The quiet dark unpacks a lifetime of neglecting those hidden places. They reach for each other and if there are tears, they are quickly forgotten. If the painful heat of panic grips them with the suggestion that they are wrong, the other quickly softens the blow with his hands or his warm embrace.</p><p>There isn’t a category for everything. There isn’t a neat place for grief or neglect to sit. Instead, those things crouch over all of life like a stalking menace. They are banished in the same way. With a spreading arching brilliance that cannot be defined. There isn’t a box for them to tuck this connection. It isn’t a romance, not exactly. They are strangers still with a lot to learn. It isn’t a quick or foolish fuck. They aren’t quite young enough or casual enough or free enough for that.</p><p>Instead, for Crowley there is a space called “Zira” where lives all the bright hope and the connection to family and to a little town. It fits somewhere around everything else in his life. Covering it all with hope and light. For Aziraphale, there is a space called “Crowley” where shines some brilliant flame of passion and secret strength. A place to be seen for what he is and not what he might be. A private beacon of welcome and a treasured heart to fill his home.</p><p>We should all hope to find such things. A place to shine, a life to share. A love when we are lost to find us.</p>
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